


Faith and Trust

by Terrorfecta



Series: That Cat-feinated AU [2]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Canon-Typical Violence, Eridan Ampora Being an Asshole, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Outer Space, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Pale-Red Vacillation, Rebellion, Winged Tavros Nitram, kind of
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-07
Updated: 2021-01-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24056950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Terrorfecta/pseuds/Terrorfecta
Summary: He's so thin and scared half to death.  It's a bad idea to keep him alive. The only reason Eridan even knew his name was because of his ex. But wide bronze eyes stared up at him and the violetblood felt pity for the first time in a long time."Hey, Tavros, do you still believe in fairies?"(Takes place in the same AU as Black Coffee, but the stories are standalone.)
Relationships: Eridan Ampora/Tavros Nitram
Series: That Cat-feinated AU [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1505639
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24





	1. A Mission, Sideways

**Author's Note:**

> *slaps hands on counter*  
> WE STOCK ONLY THE FINEST OF RAREPAIRS!

It was supposed to be easy. They picked up a cargo ship of supplies from one of the producer planets and used a psionicly-tethered hauler to tow it to some nowhere outpost that was on the way to the next assignment. It was demeaning work, but having only recently turned eleven sweeps, Eridan Ampora was only afforded so much leeway in assigmnents. He had his pick of officers, ships, and weapons, but the Condesce expected her army to move efficiently and sometimes that meant forwarding supplies to the lower castes serving outpost duty.

It was supposed to be a _simple drop_. Make sure the ship landed, notify the nearby Alternian forces, and leave the glubbin planet. Eridan’s eye twitched in annoyance. No one had bothered telling him a group of feral lowbloods had taken over the planet and they would be assaulted before they’d even gotten to the ground.

They were hovering too low to launch an orbital bombardment and the helmstroll—some pissblood that reminded him inexorably of Captor—had gone offline, thinkpan so overstimulated the override had triggered to prevent meltdown. Now they were under cover, firing potshots from behind the crates in the cargo bay down at the quick-moving trolls below. While they didn’t have anything as fancy as a plasma rifle, the ferals were apparently very comfortable with bows and the arrows shattered on impact, sending shrapnel across the hold.

If he’d had his way, Eridan would have abandoned the mission and let the ferals have it. It offered a blank space in the empire’s coverage, and he could report it back to the rest of the rebellion. Maybe one of the other lowbloods could convince these ferals to stand down and they could use it as a covert ops planet. But as a seadweller, he was under a lot of scrutiny. Sending out messages was dangerous enough, even if they were coded and sent to real trolls undercover on other ships, who could then pass it on to the proper channels. Letting a post get overrun was akin to treason, and it had been too long since the last highblood execution. The violetblood’s hands were tied.

Something swooped in at ship level and Eridan shot instinctively. The little glider’s armor was too thick to do much damage, but it skirted away anyway.

They didn’t have to clear the ferals out, just cull enough of them to get the cargo down to the remaining forces at the outpost. Then they could leave this hellhole and none of his officers would dare say a word. A resupplied, fully trained group of trolls should have no problem wiping up the last of the gutterbloods and their sticks.

Aiming Ahab’s Crosshairs, Eridan continued firing. One lowblood, two lowbloods. Three, four, five. They were turning. _Finally_. Some of his officers wanted to give chase in their own ships, but he barked orders and they helped sever the tethered goods instead. That was their mission. That was all he wanted to do.

Eridan dusted himself off again as he took his place in the bridge. There were still splinters in his boots, but his foul mood made things move even faster. The trolls in front of him didn’t dare slack off with such nobility behind them.

“Sir!” warbled some mudblood barely in his line of sight. She’d come up from further in the ship, probably weaving through the halls at a sprint if the sheen of sweat was anything to go by. “We’ve captured a prisoner, sir!”

“Captured?” Eridan’s usual scowl deepened. “We’re not a prisoner ship. Who authorized this?”

“Officer Helkot, sir! She says you really need to see this, sir!”

Of course. Officer Helkot was a damned fanatic, too eager to kiss his ass and too eager to prove herself. She was getting off at their destination near the Outer Rings and he couldn’t wait to see the last of her. Eridan stalked off the bridge, gesturing vaguely as his subordinates saluted on his way out. His attention was on following the scurrying little troll. The hallways were spotless, as he expected. The few trolls not explicitly on duty were in corners, quick to bow their heads in the face of his foul mood.

Just outside one of the rarely used holding cells, he found Helkot. She perked up upon seeing him, grinning as winningly as those overlarge ceruleanblood teeth allowed. “Captain Ampora, sir!” she nearly chirped. “You just have to see this! I’ve only ever read about it!”

That was the other thing. She spoke in only exclamations and it burned right behind his eyes. He was already feeling the need to lie down with a stiff drink.

Just to appease her, Eridan looked into the cell and found a troll on the ground, curled up in a ball like a wriggler. The rebel groaned every now and then, and after the third or fourth noise, Eridan saw something shift on the stranger’s back.

He narrowed his eyes, tempted to pull out the little reading glasses he had stored in his pocket. The movement happened again, and Eridan schooled his features to mildly surprised instead of is initial reaction—letting his jaw drop open.

Wings. Huge, gossamer wings that clung like film to the troll’s back because of the weight of blood and twitched ever so slightly. They looked intact, too, glittering slightly under the harsh lights of the ship. One of the rarest mutations he’d ever seen, long thought eradicated from the bloodlines.

“As loathe as I am to admit it, I commend you, Officer,” Ampora reported, voice a little stilted. “This does warrant further investigation.” Namely, how a winged troll had managed to make it all the way here from Alternia. Even if the jadebloods in the caverns had missed it, and the schoolfeeding system, and all the other trolls on the planet, a bronzeblood should have begun molting on the orbiting ships above said planet. Even an extraordinarily late bloomer should have been caught before getting anywhere near this star system.

“Oh, I had hoped so, sir! Shall I open a line with the Royal Fleet?” The little blueblood seemed incredibly excited about that, almost vibrating with eagerness. Eridan held up a hand, watching her snap back to attention. It was like having a barkbeast waiting for a treat.

“Hold. The Fleet doesn’t appreciate being interrupted for gossip and curios. We’ll contact the central hub after we interrogate this trash.”

“Good idea, sir!”

He could feel his fins beginning to fan out in his irritation. “Of course it is. _I_ had it. Now let’s get off this filthy planet. If this feral has any information, we’ll pass it on. If they don’t, we’ll toss the body out the airlock with the rest of the refuse.”

Officer Helkot jumped to obey, practically running down the corridor. The mudblood that had brought him to the cells took a second longer, but quickly left as well. Presumably, they assumed he’d go back to his quarters. The captain’s orders weren’t necessary for such a standard operation and it had been a long night. A drink and a long shower were in order, but first he wanted to satisfy his own curiosity.

Eridan studied the strange troll’s figure. Big, for a lowblood. Umber, if the light didn’t betray him. The exact shade would probably be important to pass on to the geneticists overlooking the Mother Grub. It would be searched out and pulled from the slurry, assuming this troll had even managed to donate a bucket before running. The practice of culling mutants before they even had a chance to prove themselves made his stomach coil, but that was the expected reaction of his station. The troll race needed to be strong, and polluting the blood of their nation was an intolerable offense.

There was just something about the strange troll that nagged at his thinkpan. The curve of his huge horns reminded him of the snapping of sails and cheering trolls. Something from before he was always afraid. He tamped it down. Now wasn’t exactly the time to be nostalgic.

The strange troll was muttering something now, too quiet to hear. Maybe it was curses. Eridan certainly would have been angry in that position. Some of the rebellion trolls prayed, though to whom and for what reason had always eluded the violetblood. There was little to gain in trying to invoke the Mirthful Messiahs, except perhaps to find courage in death.

Uninterrupted, the troll continued, and Eridan leaned against the bars, picking up fractions of words and not much else. The troll really did make him feel nostalgic, though Eridan couldn’t quite place why. Something about the green tunic, cut to ribbons and pooling around his wrists. The short, rhythmic panting, like the troll couldn’t get enough breath to finish a thought.

“…come on, Rufio, come on…”

Eridan opened the cell, practically slamming it off its hinges. He was careful enough not to let it echo across the hallway, but the bronzeblood’s eyes snapped up in fear at the sound. A low, desperate warble started up in the troll’s throat before he quashed it, settling for a forced growl. The bronzeblood seemed to gather up all his strength to sit, growling helplessly at a troll so much higher than his own station it was obscene. Something dark moved in Eridan at the noise, but he quashed it, studying the troll on his knees.

He’d gotten older. Obviously, he would have gotten older, just like Eridan was older. The gray eyes had filled completely with bronze and his skin was dark, almost unreflective, black. The molt hadn’t done those huge horns any favors, but at least his shoulders had filled out to accommodate the bulk. And he was shaking, for all the bravado in his voice. Shaking like he was on the edge of a cliff and about to be pushed. It would be so easy to push.

Long ago, Orphaner Dualscar had pushed inland after disembarking from his ship. Marquis Spinneret Mindfang was still bombarding the coast from her ship, driving back reinforcements as the seadweller went for the objective. He remembered a team of lowbloods. They’d been the only hint of challenge in the objective and he’d been so filled with rage he and Vriska had argued for the next week.

It had been a very long time since Eridan had thought of FLARPing. It had been a wriggler fantasy to captain a ship, and now he had a very nice one where trolls listened to his every whim. He didn’t have to hunt all the time and he could cull anybody who talked back. Trolls gave him all the attention he could stand, silently begging for his favors because out here he was the next thing to royalty.

The winged troll’s growl eventually stuttered off and died under Eridan’s level gaze. He looked so small. Eridan looked back toward the door and crouched, unbuttoning his officer’s jacket as a noble should. His prisoner flinched like he was waiting for a strike. That looked a lot more appropriate than the show of rebellion. Vriska had had the hots for the timid little gutterblood from their roleplaying, he remembered. His name was… Tavros. Tavros Nitram.

What were the chances?

“Did you like Pupa Pan growing up?” the seadweller questioned, not sure who was listening. He had done his best to handpick his crew, but having too many rebellion sympathizers in one place was suicide. One of the zealots could have a channel open and Eridan had plenty of practice in double-speaking.

With a somewhat detached interest, Eridan watched the bronzeblood’s wings snap up and out, spattering blood across the room. Tavros launched at him, eyes wild with terror. Eridan let himself be knocked back, but he quickly caught the troll in his arms, locking him down. Those wings flapped wildly around him, kicking up any specks of dust the cleaning crew had missed. His uniform would need to be burned at this rate.

Fuck, Tavros had gotten _thin_. He’d always been a skinny thing, but his arms were only as thick as Eridan’s and the latter hadn’t even molted yet. Tavros thrashed, spitting uncharacteristic curses and trying to gore the violetblood with the limited movement of his horns. It took almost no effort to flip the brown-blooded troll around, pinning his wings beneath him and slapping his wrists above his head. Eridan could grab them both with one hand and hold it with ease. Tavros’s shredded tunic revealed skin pulled taut under chitin. He was thin enough that his plates rubbed together even stretched out like this, probably pinching the soft pieces beneath. The umberblood squirmed, confidence gone as Eridan stared down at him, trying to reconcile the soft little wriggler he’d vaguely known with the adult troll here.

“Did you ever FLARP?” Eridan asked, nearly whispering.

Tavros stopped thrashing, confusion on his features. “What?” he stammered. “I don’t, um.”

Eridan leaned down, closer. “Ever wear a glubbin costume? It had a stupid hat?”

Now the bronzeblood was staring at him, like he had no idea who Eridan was. All at once, it seemed to crash into him, and his eyes widened. The thinner troll’s whole body seemed to expand, and Eridan slapped a hand over his face before he could speak, looking deliberately around.

Understanding, the bronze nodded, mouthing ‘Dualscar’ against the violetblood’s palm. Eridan nodded, and backed off a little, shifting to let Tavros’s arms loose. The prone troll left them there, apparently dazed.

Something warm was slipping into the seadweller's veins. Tavros looked wretched, splayed out and ready to be eaten by somebody less benevolent than himself. Now that they were lifting off, the bronzeblood was trapped here, a rebel on an Imperial ship. He'd be slaughtered in a second if it were any other ship. He'd have been slaughtered already if Eridan hadn't recognized him. Attacking a highblood was the dumbest thing he'd ever seen a mudblood do.

The wings would be useful. Everybody knew about Pupa Pan. It wouldn’t take much for those Sufferer cultists to twist it into the second coming of the Summoner. Tavros was worth more alive than dead, even if he looked half-dead already.

That was definitely the only reason Eridan stood up, leaving the troll alive on the ground. “I have to make some calls,” the seadweller told him. “In a few hours, you will be questioned. If your answers are satisfactory, you will continue to survive.” Eridan paused, letting his scowl soften a little. “If you have no information, I suggest you come up with some.”

He swept from the room, fixing his jacket as he went. The door clicked shut behind him, locking automatically. Sollux was going to have an aneurysm at this one.


	2. Hope, Restrained

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tavros is asked some very uncomfortable questions, and the hospitality is less than stellar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note the rating change and added tags.
> 
> Also, torture scene ahead. Nothing too graphic, but this will have multi-chapter ramifications and if injury recovery makes you uncomfortable, this might not be the fic for you.

Tavros slept fitfully, curled over himself in the foreign ship. He could sense, somehow, when they reached space. The air of the ship changed. There were more trolls wandering past his cell, laughing and working. The vents around him activated, blowing stale air back through the ship at a consistent rate. After a while, though, his thinkpan filtered out everything else. The hum of the ship, the cadence of voices, the ache in his limbs and where that ache disappeared in patches of ruined nerves.

He slept. It was all he could manage for a while.

The bronzeblood, in his moments of wakefulness, contemplated trying to treat his injuries. The laser fire had burned holes cleanly through the thinner parts of his flesh, and the wounds bled sluggishly any time he moved too much. The shrapnel of his weapon exploding in his hands had done more damage, and it seemed like a lot of effort if he wasn’t going to live for much longer.

But the highblood had promised he would be questioned. He needed to prepare for that first. Every time he started to craft a character, though, his thoughts returned to FLARPing. It was ancient history now, as hazy and far away as when he used to run with the lusii.

When he dreamed, for the few minutes at a time that he could stand it, he dreamed of Vriska and Eridan and all the things he’d lost when he was five.

Time was running out. A new character had to be created, one interesting enough he would survive until someone came for him. Tavros tried not to think about what would happen if no one came.

A name. It would start with a name.

***

The door slammed open again, making Tavros’s consciousness crash back into him all at once. For just a second, he wasn’t sure where he was or why things hurt, and then a blueblood in a crisp black uniform dragged him up by his throat.

“Where would you like me to put him, sir?” chirped the stranger, looking back toward the doorway. Eridan appeared there, looking every bit as irritated as he had before. The low thrum of his negative mood seemed to rattle the ship, and Tavros felt his wings twitch, trying to get some distance. The grip on him was firm, but as Eridan entered, he felt it tighten a little more. Whether that was anxiety or excitement was difficult to gauge.

“Just keep him in place for the draw,” Eridan sighed, and Tavros watched him produce a small needle and vial.

“Of course, sir!”

Eridan muttered something under his breath, but stalked his way forward. He still had that straight back, an air of smugness that seemed to infect every aspect of his appearance. Even pulling the bronzeblood’s arm out and locating a vein seemed like he was doing the winged troll a favor. Aradia probably would have laughed at him. She’d never been as scared of highbloods as she should have.

The violetblood shifted his grip slightly, twisting the lowblood’s arm so that his veins bulged under the skin. Tavros squeaked, but it wasn’t particularly painful as Eridan wiped his arm, wrist to elbow, with an antiseptic cloth.

“Well, I’ve seen worse,” the seadweller noted, almost to himself. With probably more care than strictly necessary, he plunged the needle in. It barely even stung, but Tavros twitched away anyway, more instinct than necessity.

Eridan used the hand not holding the vial to grip his elbow. “Be still,” he ordered, and Tavros froze. The claws around his skin didn’t dig in, but he was excruciatingly aware of the fact that they could, and he would be able to do nothing. Between the landdweller holding his weight with one hand and the seadweller who had already demonstrated he could hold the troll down with no effort, there was no point struggling.

Somewhat desperately, Tavros thought of Rufio. It was the only thing that gave him the confidence to suppress the keening whine in his throat. A command from a highblood struck something in his consciousness that made him want to cower. He fought it hard, clenching his jaw. Rufio would have done the same.

“Damn,” Eridan murmured, apparently not striking the vein. He moved Tavros’s arm a bit more and struck a different area. This time, he made a slightly pleased noise, and the deep rumble in his chest subsided a bit.

It was still tense. The officer holding Tavros up shifted slightly, and he felt his airway open just enough to take a breath. The bronzeblood tried to do so discreetly, but Eridan still glanced up, concern flashing across his face before it was hidden away again. Tavros wasn’t sure what to make of that, but he stored it away for later.

“This is enough,” Eridan remarked a little later. He closed the vial of orangeish blood and removed the needle, letting weaker troll go. “I’ll send a report to the fleet when I return to the bridge.” The other officer dropped him, and Tavros’s legs couldn’t hold. He fell back to the ground with a grunt, expecting more pain to follow.

To his surprise, Eridan swept from the room, and the officer followed, and he was left to his thoughts. It took a few minutes to recalibrate, to reassure himself that that had happened. That it wasn’t some strange dream in anticipation for the pain he knew was coming.

As he examined his elbow, looking at the sluggish bleed from where he’d been pricked, Tavros tried to plan. He maybe, possibly, had someone a little sympathetic to his cause, and he had very little else. That meant he would have to work carefully and hope he lived long enough for someone to help him.

This was going to be the biggest challenge of his life.

***

Several hours later, after Tavros had crafted his new character and had time to get into the role, the interrogators arrived.

They were officers of unknown rank and unknown caste. They wore all black to hide the stains and brought in drones to take video from several angles as they asked questions. Their tools were sharp, and even looking at them made Tavros’s digestion sac fill with bile.

It had been easy to answer the questions at first. He was tossed into a chair they had brought with them, and asked his name and rank. Tavros planted the first lie there. He was Rufio, unaffiliated with Her Imperial Condescension’s fleet. He lived free, helping to lead other trolls to throw off their shackles and rejoin nature’s bounty.

One of the trolls slapped his face hard enough to knock his head back.

They asked how old he was. He lied. They asked if he’d ever pailed anyone before. When he gasped and stuttered, one of them punched him in the face. They asked how many trolls lived on that planet and one of them took out a scalpel and pressed it under the smallest claw on his right hand.

On and on it went. The interrogators asked questions about where he was from, who had brought him off Alternia. Between those were horrible questions. Did he like pailing animals? How big was his bulge? Had he ever culled another troll or was he a coward?

It was meant to confuse him, to fluster the bronzeblood so much that he slipped up, especially when they punished him anytime he took too long to speak. Tavros barely kept his thread of lies together, especially once they started using those very specially-crafted little knives. At some point, he passed out, and one of the strangers had hauled him out of the chair and stemmed the bleeding.

“The captain wants to make sure he’s not useful first,” one of them scolded. Tavros didn’t have the energy to fight as two of the trolls pressed sopor-infused bandages to the worst wounds. The sting of it jolted him out of the bliss of unconsciousness, but his eyes were too swollen to see much of what they were doing. He heard the chair get dragged out, and one of the trolls made a disgusted sound.

“Why does gutterblood always stain?” she asked, apparently to no one in particular.

Tavros felt the grip on him change, and he was suddenly dropped. He didn’t have the strength to catch his fall, and it was purely luck that he didn’t snap a horn on the way down. Instead, his cheek gave a vaguely wet crunch and he heard several sets of feet stomp back out the door.

The second the door closed, Tavros felt himself falling back to darkness.

***

It must have been much later when Tavros woke again. The drones and trolls were gone, and he was lying face-down on the floor in a puddle of his own half-dried blood. But he was alive and he had been patched up enough that he would stay that way for at least a little while.

Mostly, he was in pain. The tiny amounts of sopor used to help heal his wounds had dried, and any of the analgesic effects were long gone. He’d been beaten up, shot up with lasers, and had several very precise pieces of his hands cut off. Still, the bronzeblood smiled, even if doing so sent another wave of agony up to his thinkpan. He’d survived, and apparently they thought he was useful enough to continue for another night.

He had to come up with more information. It hurt too much to do much else, but as long as he was conscious, it was something.

While Tavros couldn’t really gauge time, it couldn’t have been more than a day before the door to his cell slammed open again. He felt the rumble of an irritated highblood before he recognized anything else, and it sent a shiver through him.

“In what universe is this a stable glubbin prisoner?” Eridan sneered as he entered the room. “I gave incredibly clear instructions, Officerator. If he dies before we’ve gotten the clear from the royal fleet, I will personally cull every information officer on this ship.”

“Sorry, sir,” came a warbling voice Tavros didn’t recognize. “Should I have one of the medicullers take another look?”

Tavros found hands on his head, one taking his pulse and the other forcing one of his eyes open. He tried to reach up, to get the claws away from the most tender parts of his face, but the questing clawtips were withdrawn as quickly as they had come. The coldness lingered slightly longer, and Tavros heard the troll’s clothes rustle as he stood.

“I suppose he’ll hold until the _Daywind_ contacts us with instructions. But that’s certainly more luck than fucking competence.”

Eridan’s boots clicked as he made a large circle around the bronzeblood. It was the only indication Tavros had. “And get this mess cleaned up. It smells like sewage in here and if we’re keeping a prisoner long term, I won’t have it infecting the rest of my ship.”

“Yes, sir! Anything else, sir?”

“No. Let’s continue.”

Then the boots clicked away, and the door shut. Eridan had fed him more information, whether the seadweller realized it or not. Tavros cracked open one eye, listening as the highblood continued talking down the hallway. Eridan was keeping him alive long enough to contact a ship from the royal fleet. That could take as long as a week.

Surely, by then Vriska would have realized he was captured. Even if she assumed he was dead by now, she’d have come for revenge, right? He’d been on the ship for at least a couple of nights, and she’d been due back to the planet the same day he’d been captured.

She’d be back soon, and he’d be well away.

The alternative didn’t bear thinking about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had this chapter done for a solid couple weeks and then this month happened. Stay safe, stay fighting.


	3. Plans, Changed

Strutting had become such a part of his identity, Eridan felt slightly adrift as he loped quietly down the hall. His thoughts were already all over the place, but at this time of day, there were no officers to notice as he made his way slowly to the cargo hold.

Karkat had been genuinely surprised that Tavros was alive, and that he’d managed to get so far away from Alternia. A few coded messages and two nights later, Eridan received notice that the cultists the mutant led were ecstatic to find a winged troll. And no wonder, considering how many factions were rising to power at the same time. It must have felt like a sign of fate that this would be _the_ rebellion to change it all.

The problem boiled down to transport, as it always seemed to. The genetissassins and medical specialists in the brooding caverns had been notified of the formerly-extinct mutation and had more than enough of the troll’s blood to try and track the genetic sample through the slurry from last season. Eridan doubted Tavros had contributed, especially if he was all the way out here the whole time, but that was the procedure.

Apparently his request with the _Daywind_ had been fast-tracked because of the jadeblood involvement. The fleetship had responded four nights after first contact, having apparently examined the interrogation video and transcript with record speed. The violetblood’s lip curled in annoyance as he stopped in front of the hold doors, hearing the faintly labored breathing just inside.

They had ordered the troll be culled. Apparently Tavro’s story, whether real or fake, was not interesting enough to keep him alive for another round of questioning. Or, as the highblood suspected, Her Imperial Condescension didn’t care enough about the Outer Rings to bother quashing forces that didn’t even have plasma rifles.

Sollux, the useless pissblood that he was, had no rebel ships close enough to hand off the troll before one of Eridan’s subordinates started asking why the mudblood was still alive. But the Signless cult was still adamant that they wanted him, and their rebellion effort couldn’t afford to offend one of the most well-funded cults outside of the subjuggulators. Plus, just letting the Tavros die would upset Feferi and Karkat both, and the violetblood wasn’t about to let that happen without a fight.

As he opened the door, Eridan watched as Tavros’s form shifted. He could hear the troll discreetly try to turn, to open his swollen eyes long enough to see just who had come in and why. “Nitram,” Eridan offered, quietly. The lowblood’s wings twitched, just slightly. “Plans changed. We gotta move.”

The only way to keep the troll alive long enough for Sollux’s lot to organize something was to hide him. And the only place that he could reliably hide a troll from his incredibly nosy officers was… his own respiteblock. Somehow, he was sure this was going to blow up in his face.

But it was for Fef and Kar. He’d do a lot more than sacrifice his personal space if they asked him. Already had, really.

“We gotta move quick, Nitram,” the highblood whispered, unfolding the large sheet he’d brought. “Can ya stand?”

Tavros managed to open his eyes most of the way. He looked exhausted, like he barely comprehended that this was happening. Slowly, he shook his head, making a vaguely questioning noise as he did so.

“Just great. Hold still, then.” Covering most of himself with the sheet, Eridan reached over and carefully bundled the troll up. Tavros gave a weak whine as he was flipped onto his back, but Eridan folded the sheet around him twice before picking him up, not allowing the hurt to linger. He shouldn’t have been surprised the bronzeblood was so light, but it was still unnerving to shuffle a troll his size around with no effort.

“Now play dead, or we both will be,” the seadweller hissed, moving quickly back out of the hold and shutting the door. Without his usual boots, the violetblood was nearly silent, listening hard for any trolls still working.

He’d timed it fairly precisely to minimize that risk. The end of the overday shift was coming up in half an hour, which meant the trolls still working were all lingering around the mess hall on the opposite side of the ship. As soon as the next shift reported over the ship’s comm system, the lazy gutterbloods would head straight for a meal before retiring to their coons. Eridan normally would have corrected such behavior—possibly violently—but it offered a small window of time where he could sneak around with any degree of certainty about where his subordinates would be.

The entire time he was exposed, Eridan silenced himself. Luckily, he supposed, Tavros had either taken the instruction to heart or passed out, because he made it to his suite without incident and with time to spare. Shifting the winged troll, Eridan punched in the code to his rooms and nearly collapsed with relief when the door shut behind him.

Still moving quickly, though slightly less quietly, Eridan headed for the ablutionblock. Once he settled Tavros’s body on the edge of the tub, the violetblood let out a long breath. “You still alive?” he asked the bronzeblood.

“Yes?” Tavros replied, struggling a little. A little belatedly, Eridan helped get the sheet back off. It had several spots of blood where the winged troll had been shifted, and it was quickly tossed aside. He hadn’t wanted a blood trail leading back to his room, so it had served its purpose.

“Good. I’m not riskin’ my neck just to have you die before I can pass you off.” The squad he’d sent to question the troll had done a bit too thorough a job. There was hardly a square inch where the troll was unblemished in some way. Eridan sighed, and easily ripped off the tattered remains of Tavros’s tunic. The bronzeblood flinched back at the sound, nearly losing his balance before Eridan caught him around the middle.

“Relax, gutterblood,” he murmured, systematically tearing off the rest of the scraps. “I’m being careful.”

“That doesn’t really, um, explain…?” Tavros stammered, voice cracking several times. He coughed, unable to continue the rest of his question. Eridan had to choke down a sympathetic purr at the sign of weakness. This was _not_ the time for pity. He had a job to do.

“What, you want to wash up in rags? Stand up.” Eridan waited a moment, but Tavros only looked up at him, eyes wide. “Come on. Stand.”

“I can’t really, um, do that.” At least the bronzeblood had the decency to sound embarrassed by it. He cringed slightly from whatever he saw in the highblood’s features, and then made a small noise of pain at the movement.

Eridan sighed, feeling his own face start to flush. “Fine.” He was _nobility_ , playing glubbin _nurse_ for this. If he hadn’t been just a little bit thrilled by the idea, he would have been mortified. “Put your arms around my neck.”

“I’m not sure if I should,” Tavros protested, though he did as he was told. Easily, the highblood wrapped an arm around his waist, the other working the clasp of his pants. Without the button to hold it up, the weight of the garment made it fall to the floor, and the highblood carefully shifted his underwear down and out of the way.

With a start, Eridan realized he was humming, a low purr that made the lowblood flush brighter. Cutting if off, embarrassed, Eridan started the shower, still holding onto Tavros securely. This wasn’t a romantic overture, he reminded himself, trying not to think of the pitiful little mudblood clinging to him. This was necessity. Anyone walking into his suite could smell the troll, and that would be the end of his short career, if not his life. Besides, he wouldn't stand for sleeping in the same place as a troll that hadn't washed recently.

Carefully, not minding that he got a bit damp, Eridan settled Tavros on the shower floor. The winged troll winced under the spray, but it shouldn’t have been uncomfortable. This was the gentlest setting, more mist than jet. And he’d made sure to turn the heat up, knowing that his usual showers weren’t nearly hot enough for someone so low on the hemospectrum.

“I have to get to the nightly assembly soon,” the highblood told him, trying not to look at the emaciated form in front of him. “I’ll be back in about forty-five minutes. I’m sure you can figure out how to clean up.”

Tavros still seemed lost, but nodded absently at the order. Eridan sighed again, and pulled a towel from the cabinet, setting it on the floor next to the shower. “I’ll leave this here. Don’t wander off.”

He didn’t really have time to dawdle if he wanted to avoid notice, so the troll swept from the room to his respiteblock. Quickly changing into his uniform, the seadweller settled back into his haughty persona. No one would dare report a missing prisoner, but on the off chance one did, he couldn’t afford to let anything slip. Tavros didn’t exist, except as a vague concept from his past. The lowblood was useless traitor ordered culled, and if it turned out the vermin had already been taken care of, so much the better.

Eridan tried to ignore the warmth in his chest. As his stupid romantic history had demonstrated, there was no accounting for taste, and besides, Tavros would be gone as soon as Sollux managed to redirect some ships. It wasn’t worth it.

But the bronze had been warm, for the few moments he'd allowed himself.

* * *

The first thing he noticed when he returned to his suite was the lack of noise. Tavros had apparently turned off the shower, which was probably for the best. While Eridan was known to take long showers, he was usually in them while they were running. All it took was one too-nosy troll looking at time stamps for their water usage and he was finished.

That damnable Helkot had held him up after the assembly, asking questions about the response from the _Daywind_. She already knew what he told her, although she pretended, rather badly, that she didn’t. The blueblood wasn’t quite as good at politics as she thought she was, and her obvious attempt to curry some pity left Eridan in a nasty mood. Yes, it was unfortunate the prisoner didn’t have any new information, but realistically, most rebel trolls had no new information. Every network fed their peons as little information as possible, specifically because so many got captured by superior forces.

Even thinking of it made him mad all over again. After entering his suite, he headed to the wardrobe and picked out something that might accommodate the bronzeblood’s wings. The only thing he had was an open-backed shirt he’d worn half a sweep ago at a party. It was a little too casual to wear around the ship, so he doubted anyone except him would even notice it was gone. He also dug out a pair of old jogging pants and some underwear. It didn’t match the shirt, but it was one of the few things he owned that had a drawstring, and at least sweats were comfortable.

Eridan didn’t even realize he was still growling until he walked into the ablutionblock and noticed Tavros had curled up into a corner, practically cowering under the towel. His wings were folded downward, twitching slightly. When the bronzeblood saw him, they froze, and the lowblood’s expression quickly shifted to what he probably thought was supposed to be friendly. “Hi,” he said weakly.

He looked so damned _pitiful_.

Shaking his head, Eridan set the clothes next to the sink. The irritation dissipated, replaced with the previous, definitely-not-pale concern. “Ya look better cleaned up,” the highblood replied. “I have clothes.”

While the winged troll said nothing, it was clear he was immensely relieved by the idea. Idly, Eridan wondered what the lowblood had assumed would happen when he got back. Given the way the troll clutched at the towel to preserve whatever modesty remained, it was probably best left unexplored.

Eridan handed him the underwear first. “I need a look at those bandages, too,” he murmured, more to himself than the lowblood. “Especially if I have to stash you here a while.” Clicking to himself, the highblood headed to the emergency cabinet under the sink. Pushing aside his personal stash of medical syringes to get into the back of his med kit, he pulled out the entire stock of bandages. Hopefully it would be enough.

Tavros grunted quietly behind him. Eridan glanced over and noticed the troll sliding into the underwear from a seated position. The shift of the troll’s hips brought a purple flush to his face, and Eridan quickly busied himself with arranging supplies.

Thankfully, by the time he was done fiddling, Tavros had finished dressing. “As much as I like ya half-naked in my personal suite, I’ll let ya get dressed after an exam,” the seadweller drawled, gesturing to the supplies. “Want to stay there, or sit up here on the load gaper?”

“Uh.” It was disgustingly adorable the way the bronzeblood seemed to look to him for the correct answer. “Up… there?” Accompanying the words was a clearly-calculated purr. Eridan tried not to trill back. Plenty of trolls over the last few sweeps had tried weaseling their way into his quadrants, and there was no reason this little gutterblood should succeed.

This wasn’t supposed to be pale. It was business. (It was kind of working, actually, and that made it a little bit more painful. It would be a horrible lie, but it would be something to sink into his bones and fend off the chill for a while.) Eridan schooled his features back to his usual mask of highblood stoicism.

“Well, can you get up there are do you need help again?”

Shit. The injured troll’s shoulders went up defensively at the tone, instantly on guard again. Eridan sighed, running a hand down his face. He’d meant to be coy, rebuffing the pale advance without being hostile. Apparently, he’d missed the fucking mark, because Tavros looked like he was bracing for a blow.

“Here, grab me again,” the seadweller instructed softly, crossing the length of the block. “We should talk anyway and it’s weird doin’ that with you in my shower.” Without really thinking about it, he put a hand on the troll’s head, patting gently. It wasn’t a full pap, but Tavros did seem pacified by the gesture.

Slightly more readily than last time, the bronzeblood wrapped an arm around the troll. Eridan tried not to let the troll’s horns bang against the shower wall, but with the size of them, it was sort of an inevitability. Tavros grunted in either surprise or pain, and Eridan quickly lifted an arm to guide him the rest of the way out. From there, he settled the troll on the closed lid of the gaper, reflexively squeezing him closer before letting him go.

Ugh, he was being a creep. But Tavros didn’t look afraid of him, and hadn’t pushed him away. The less touch-starved part of the seatroll’s brain knew that was because the bronzeblood had nowhere else to go. This wasn’t consent. He was being _creepy_. He thought he learned the difference sweeps ago, but apparently it hadn't stuck.

“I’m starting with your hands,” Eridan decided, noticing the slightly damp bandages as he tried to put some distance between them. Given the wounds left uncovered, he could only imagine how bad the bronzeblood’s fingers looked.

Wordlessly, Tavros held out one hand, and Eridan began unwrapping the injuries. As he did, he spoke. “So. How did you get all the way out here before those showed up?” He gestured with his chin toward the lowblood’s wings.

That was it. Conversational. Not flirting. They weren’t in a pile, and he wasn’t shooshing the troll. He was just tending to some injuries and then he could have a nice, cold shower after settling the bronzeblood somewhere else.

“Just lucky, I guess,” Tavros replied, haltingly, as if he’d noticed the change in Eridan’s demeanor.

Despite himself, the highblood chuckled. “Okay, if that’s how you lied to my squad, they all deserve to get culled for fucking incompetence.” The wounds on the troll’s hands weren’t as bad as he feared. Missing pieces, sure, but he’d seen worse. It would make some interesting scars, but he’d still have use of them.

“I know you’re not with our group,” Eridan continued, dabbing medical-grade sopor onto the wounds and noticing how the troll’s breath hitched. It was hard to tell if it was the medicine or the line of questioning. “And those hemo-equality lunatics had no idea you existed. So either you’re the luckiest troll in existence and you managed to hide a set of _wings_ for a sweep or two, or someone smuggled you out of conscription and dropped you off on some backwater planet.”

“I’m just lucky, I guess,” the bronzeblood insisted, quietly. That little desperate growl was back, just barely tainting his words with aggression.

Eridan stopped moving for a second, ignoring the sting to his pride. He was helping the troll escape certain death, and he wasn’t even trustworthy enough to tell the truth? Tavros had turned away, looking for all the world like a kicked barkbeast. The seadweller couldn’t even muster up the energy to pretend to be offended. He would have done the same.

“Well, at least you’re consistent. I’ve got someone arranging to get you off my ship in a little less than a perigee. Until then, you’ll stay hidden in here.” The highblood quickly wrapped Tavros’s hand up to the wrist in stiff bandages, moving with practiced ease. “Well, not _here_. The whole suite is mine. The cleaners come through nightly, but beyond that you're free to move around as long as you don't bother me.” The smaller troll fliched at the words, but Eridan pretended he didn't notice. It was easier to do that than let his traitorous thinkpan despair about scaring a lowblood. He was nobility. The bronze had every reason to be scared.

That hand was done. He moved to dab at Tavro’s arm, putting just a bit of sopor on the worst wounds. The last thing he needed was a tranqed out troll too loose-limbed to hide from spies. That done, he let the arm drop. Wordlessly, Tavros offered the other one, watching as the highblood worked.

It seemed the lowblood had no questions, or if he did, he kept them to himself. Eridan finished with the troll’s other arm, and moved to his chest, feeling between chitin to look for broken bones and internal bleeding. One thing became very clear during the exam, and that was that Tavros desperately needed some food. He wasn’t just thin, he was _starving_ , and it was even more apparent now that he’d been dehydrated for a few days and left to rot in a storage room. Eridan could order a few things from the mess hall to be transportalized into his rooms, but he wasn’t sure how much would raise suspicion. Maybe just some broth, for now, until he figured out which of his chefs wouldn’t ask too many questions.

“Nothing bleeding out,” he noted, working around to the troll’s back. It put them in a sort of loose hug, but Tavros didn’t push him away. Eridan continued, trying not to think about this too much. This was wrong and he was wrong for enjoying it. “Looks like the muscles are intact. Which is good, because I’m incredibly talented, but that might be beyond me.” Tavros let out a little huff of laughter, and Eridan felt more warmth climb to his face.

Upper half was done. That left… Well. Eridan inhaled, maybe a little more sharply than necessary. Very carefully, he knelt and extended one of Tavros’s legs. They were thin, much too thin, but mostly uninjured. Nothing that needed bandaging, at least. The lowblood had tensed as his feet were examined, but Eridan could do little about the torn callouses and badly healed bones. He dabbed a bit of sopor on the worst ones, but then sat back on his heels, looking up.

“Please tell me I don’t have to check anything else,” the highblood murmured. He could feel his face flushing slightly.

“No! Um, no. Thank you.” The lowblood looked mortified, and his face had flushed all the way down to his chest. Honestly, it was the cutest fucking thing Eridan had ever seen, but he pushed himself back to his feet and tried to shake it off.

“Good. Because if it turns out you die before I pass you off, I’ll never hear the end of it.” The seadweller reached blindly for the clothes, and passed them to Tavros. “You’re so small, I doubt these will fit, but it’s better than walking around naked for a perigee.” He chuckled, adding reflexively, “not that I’d mind.”

The look on Tavro’s face, afraid and then resigned, made Eridan regret the joke. “Well, I’ll let you do that while I check in with the crew,” the seadweller continued, barreling over whatever the lowblood might have said. “I can’t leave those idiots alone for too long or they’d send us into a black hole, I swear.”

And with that, he stormed out of the room, pulling out his phone and getting back into the swing of business. Having a stowaway couldn’t interrupt his plans for long, and he had a lot of trolls to keep track of. The mortification coursing through his veins and making his gills quiver was purely coincidental and had absolutely no bearing on his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life has been pretty rough, but this account isn't dead. I'm just living that "essential employee in a pandemic" life and working 60+ hours a week so I don't have time to do much more than work, chores, and sleep.
> 
> Couple notes:  
> Eridan's "accent" gets worse when he's upset. I imagine him getting way more warbly when he's not consciously keeping it in check.  
> One of those sentences is a lot more important than it seems up there. Setup, payoff, whoo.  
> Tavros does get some agency in this fic. Eventually. He's the lynchpin of the plot, but man am I mean to him first.


End file.
